Venting Like The AC Is Turned On High
by lynnsenpai
Summary: Austria is woken up in the middle of the night by Germany, who is desperate to relieve the heavy realization weighing on his shoulders. [gerita, geraus friendship; in-universe]


"Alright, alRIGHT, I'm COMING!" Austria trudged toward the front door, squinting through the darkness. He passed the kitchen, and he paused for a moment to check the glowing green time on the microwave. He groaned at what he could make out. Who on earth was knocking at this time of night?

*Bang! Bang! Bang! Bang!*

"Someone better be dying if you're pounding on my door this late!" he snarled, stalking into the foyer and flipping on the porch light. He unlocked the door and yanked it open. "What!?"

Germany stopped wringing his hands for a moment, looking up from his fuzzy green slippers, which looked soaked, like he'd stepped in a dozen puddles. "Austria!" he shouted, loud out of nervousness. As the tired nation narrowed his eyes irritably at the volume, he winced. "Um, Austria. I need to speak to you immediately."

"Couldn't it wait until morning?" Austria snapped, crossing his arms. With his glasses sitting on his bedside table, his glare looked more severe than usual. "It's three am, and I probably won't be of much service because I'll be nodding off in the middle of whatever you're saying! I ought to make you sit and sentence you to four hours of angry Chopin for disturbing me at this time of night!"

"I know, I'm sorry. I-I just… have to tell SOMEbody!" Germany tugged at the collar of his very wrinkled shirt and looked down at his shoes. "Please let me in. I couldn't sleep. I have to get this off my chest, and just thinking about it with no one around has been driving me mad. You know how Prussia is about personal stuff, so I came to you… I have to get this off my chest, please."

Austria glowered at him for a long moment. The spiteful urge to slam the door and return to bed was powerful, but he was always a sucker for pitiful eyes, and Germany's favor over Prussia had always been something he'd craved. He gripped the door tightly enough to turn his knuckles white as he pulled it back. "I'm only allowing you in because it's the polite thing to do. If I was a little more selfish, I would send you off right at this second."

Germany nodded. "Thank you, Austria," he said, declining his head slightly.

Austria rolled his eyes and turned, leaving the door open. "Come in and close it. I won't be making coffee because I expect this to be quick." He threw a sour scowl over his shoulder.

Germany reached up and pushed a hand through his disheveled hair, closing the front door as he entered the house, taking a moment to deposit his wet slippers at the front. He followed the cranky Austrian into the living room. He was gestured to take a seat, and he settled on the dark green couch as Austria turned on one of the table lamps and sat in a recliner.

"State your business, Germany, I'm a very busy man. You disturbed a rather pleasant dream and I wish to continue it as soon as possible." Austria could be very nasty when he was deprived of sleep, especially with no guarantee of coffee. If he was All Business fully awake, he truly had no patience for anything except the direct subject at hand when he was drowsy.

Germany, oddly enough, blushed. "I…"

"You?"

"I'm, um…"

"You are, um?"

"I'm in love with Italy!"

There was a moment of tense silence, the blurted confession hanging in the air between them. Germany's cheeks burned darker in the dim light, and he buried his face in his hands. The words had burst from him like a dam breaking; he'd meant to say them slowly, and less bluntly, but–

Austria sighed, sounding weary. "Is that all?"

"'Is that all?'!?" Germany echoed incredulously, head snapping up to glare at the other. "What do you MEAN, 'is that all?'?!"

"I was expecting you to tell me something I didn't already know," Austria said tiredly. "Like France was planning to admit that he stole the croissant from me, or that Turkey changed his mind about wanting into the EU, or that I won Eurovision this year after the jury reconsidered."

"Wait, you KNEW about this?!"

"Who doesn't? It's obvious! If you HAVEN'T noticed, you've either been too busy with your head shoved up some very uneducated places to, or.. well, that's about it." Austria folded his arms across his eighth note-printed pajama top. He made a peculiar kind of screwed up face as he suddenly paused and regarded his company for a moment. As Germany hid his blushing face again, his eyebrows rose high on his forehead. "Oh NO, Germany, you–"

"NO, I didn't!" Germany wailed in distress, voice muffled by his hands.

Austria closed his eyes and pinched the bridge of his nose. "You are something else, aren't you?" he muttered, eyes still shut. He appeared to be battling a headache. "You can tell the difference between two guns that look nearly identical, you know dozens of battle plans like the back of your own hand.. and yet you can't tell when you've fallen in love with someone?! God, you really ARE Prussia's brother, aren't you?"

"H-hey, love and war are two entirely different things," Germany protested weakly.

Austria shot him a tiny, wry smile. "Are they truly?"

Surprised at the sage reply, Germany blinked, then lowered his gaze to the floor. He propped his elbows on his knees and held his head in his hands, fingers scratching at the nape of his neck as he shut his eyes. He felt prickly and hot in his clothes, and his stomach was still tightly twisted into nervous knots, making him nauseous.

There was a hand on his shoulder. "Would you like something to drink? I decided to brew some coffee after all, since this will clearly take a while."

Germany nodded. "Please, thank you."

Austria's slow, deliberate footsteps traveled away from him, and he heaved a heavy breath.

Why was he even coming to Austria for this?! The old man was just as stiff and cold as HE was about this! But… he'd lived a much longer life, and gotten married quite a few times; he probably knew more about romance than Germany, even if he wasn't a love guru like France claimed to be, or–

Italy.

The thought of Italy Veneziano made him pause. The cheerful country was always cooing about love, or loving something: he loved pasta, he loved painting, he loved pretty girls, he loved Germany… and his brother, and Japan, and Miss Hungary, and even Mr. Austria and France. Italy was like a sparkling-eyed personification of love; he probably didn't have one ounce of hatred in his heart.

Germany realized that while his thoughts had drifted to Italy, a small smile had pulled onto his face. He frowned and growled, ruffling his hair in frustration. "I'm always thinking about him!" he spat, thinking aloud. "Why?! There's nothing special about him, is there!? He's just a normal guy!"

"There doesn't have to be anything special about someone for you to fall in love with them."

Austria stood in the entranceway, clean against the frame. He'd fetched his spectacles, and with them sitting on his nose, he looked just as he regularly did, albeit with messier hair and no cravat. His reappearance startled Germany into sitting up straight, hand gripping the arm of the couch tightly. The older country huffed. "Really, Germany, if you're going to talk out loud to yourself about this then why did you come all the way here?"

"Because I can't give mySELF advice. Or at least, not GOOD advice…"

"And you think I can? My experiences differ from yours, I'd like to think. You should have gone to France for this, or maybe Spain. One of those Latin countries. They all claim to be fantastic lovers, after all."

"No! I can't let anybody else know about this, it's embarrassing!"

Austria sure was doing an awful lot of sighing tonight. "Please, Germany, if they don't already know then they can just spend five minutes with you and they will! All you do is talk about Italy, it's ridiculous!" He sniffed, inclining his chin. "And you've just given me another embarrassing story to blackmail you with, you know. Don't you remember how I almost told England that you used to wet the beds until you were sixty-two? Or maybe you can recall the time I nearly informed Poland and those Baltic fellows on how you used to–"

"Yes! I remember! Ugh, I only do because you won't let me forget it." Germany glared at Austria. "Jeez… and you think you're different from Prussia."

"I am! We're as different as night and day… only I'm better at more things than he is. Music, baking, socializing, politics, betting, being handsome, being QUIET–"

"Maybe, but not blackmail. Prussia is the king of blackmail. He writes EVERYthing in those diaries of his. He has dirt on everyone we know, and even people we don't." Germany shuddered. Austria quirked his eyebrows, clearly interested, but was cut off with a head shake. "Look, that isn't what I came here for!"

"Right, right, of course." Austria pushed himself off of the entrance frame. "How do you take your coffee?"

"Black."

"I think you mean tasteless and bitter." Shaking his head in disgust, Austria turned and disappeared into the hall again, going off to prepare their coffee.

Germany rolled his eyes. "You and Prussia really are more similar than you think," he murmured, remembering how his elder brother pulled a face and stuck his tongue out, then tried to spoil his coffee by slipping a sugar cube into it.

There were a few minutes of silence as Germany sat, listening to the sound of a spoon clinking against the sides of a porcelain mug from the kitchen. Austria took his drinks sweet enough to cause cavities; Prussia also disliked black, but he didn't overload his coffee with 'no less than four sugars' like Austria did. Germany liked his without anything more than a splash of cream because the bitter taste helped chase away drowsiness and give him the alertness he needed to function. But no, his elders only mocked him and called him tasteless…

"Here," Austria said as he returned, holding two mugs of steaming coffee by their handles. Interestingly enough, his own, the one he still held as he placed a muted orange one on a coaster in front of Germany, had 'Music is my Boyfriend' painted on it. "Black as England's scones. Enjoy your ruined taste buds, Germany."

"He actually makes decent desserts," Germany remarked, picking the mug up and blowing at the steam that rose from it. "I've had a few, and they didn't make me violently ill like I've been told."

"Yes, but even if his desserts are fine, they aren't fine enough for the stomach virus he gave me in 1955. 'Peace scones', my ass." Austria took a sip of his own beverage and hummed, giving Germany a lazy look through fogged-up spectacles. "But as entertaining as talking smack about that douchebag is, it isn't what you came to see me at three am for. Or, at least it better not be, or else I'm charging you at least twenty euros for that coffee."

Germany's expression immediately changed, the neutral line of his mouth dipping into a frown. "No, it isn't," he sighed, placing his coffee down on the coaster.

"You're aware of Sigmund Freud?" At the nod, Austria placed his own mug down and pressed his fingertips together. "I consider myself a novice in works like his. Call me 'Doktor Österreich' for the time being."

Germany snorted. "It just won't be the same without the chewed-up cigar and bushy facial hair. Sorry, Austria."

Austria stroked his chin and made a disappointed 'hm'. "I'm still offering my ears, Germany. I've taken very good care of them, through all the years: I'm a good listener."

"I'm sure." Germany leaned against the back of the couch, eyes affixed on the ceiling. Right above the spot where he at, there was a faded stain, darker than the rest of the ceiling. He wondered what had caused it; probably some incident involving Prussia. "To be honest, I don't even know where to begin with this entire situation."

"You would know better than I." A pause; a sip. "Perhaps you should tell me why you believe you're in love with Italy."

"He makes me feel… weird."

Austria raised an eyebrow. "What kind of weird?"

"All kinds." Germany rubbed a hand against his face, weariness suddenly settling into his bones. "I don't feel a lot of things, except different variants of angry and tired."

"Here's to that, Germany." Austria raised his mug, then took another sip.

"But Italy… he annoys me too, don't think otherwise. Especially when I first met him. You know the fool was hiding in a crate of tomatoes, just waiting for someone to come along when we first met?"

"I believe it. Did he start telling you about his relatives who lived in Germany who would be devastated if you shot him?"

"Of course! And when I said I wouldn't shoot him, because he clearly had no idea what he was doing and I thought he was a pedestrian or something, he started following me around! Asking if we could be friends! Me, the enemy!"

"That's Italy for you. Always trying to be nice to everyone." Austria's tone was soft with obvious fondness as he spoke. Germany frowned, remembering how the older nation, along with Miss Hungary, had raised Italy.

"Yeah… well, after we lost the war–" He winced. "–he still hung around. I think I actually went crazy during those years, between dealing with France and England constantly dogging me, struggling to pay reparations, and Italy's.. well, entire existence.

"But as the years went on.. for some reason, I… looked forward to him coming to aggravate me. He managed to connive me into making him dinner a few times, and you know what he said once he tasted it?"

"I do, but tell me anyway. I want to hear how accurate your imitation is."

"'Bleh! This is terrible!'"

Austria made a strange sound. Germany realized, as he made it again, that he was chuckling. "Your accent is spot on," he remarked, nursing his coffee in his hands now that the mug had somewhat cooled. "You really DO hang around him that much, do you… hm, you must, for it to be perfect like that."

"I do," he admitted. "We're… close friends."

"You two are quite an unlikely pair."

"We were strictly allies at first. My boss ordered me to team up with him during the next war, and I made sure to keep him at arm's distance at all times. But then he kept getting stuck. Trapped by England, or stalked by France. I had to bail him out of Egypt because he couldn't even tie his own shoelaces! I remember thinking, 'THIS guy is Rome's grandson?!'"

"Yes, war is not Italy's strong suit, unlike his grandfather's. He's a lover, an artist; not a fighter." Austria crossed one leg over his knee. "A parallel I see in myself, actually. My hands belong to instruments, not guns."

"Italy is a brilliant painter," Germany said, folding his hands in his lap and looking back up at the ceiling. If he squinted his eyes almost shut, the stain above him almost looked like the Italian peninsula; Sicily, Sardinia, and all. "He visited Berlin once, a while ago. I never saw him with any kind of paintbrush or paint, but he gave me a painting of the city before he left for the airport. It was incredibly detailed, shadows and textures and everything. It looked like it belonged in an art museum, it was amazing! He's so talented at art; I don't know how he does it, because I'm useless with paint and can only do mediocre with pencils."

"I know. He's the little brat who used to paint moustaches to all of my portraits. What an upstart." Austria rubbed the spot above his top lip, where a moustache would be, furrowing his eyebrows with mild irritation.

Germany smiled a little, remembering one of the dusty old paintings in the basement, one of those moustache-bearing portraits. "I think… I think Italy makes me feel… happy."

Austria raised his eyebrows again, then pursed his lips. "You aren't happy, Germany?"

"No. I mean… yes, of course I am, but… not happy. 'Content' suits me more." Germany sat up straighter, reaching for his drink on the coffee table. He took several sips; it was beginning to grow cold, and wasting free coffee was practically an insult. "But Italy.. makes me feel better than just content. He's still a little annoying, but in a different way than when we were first acquainted.

"He says I worry him with how much I work, and drags me out of the office. Sometimes we go out for lunch or dinner, or maybe just a walk if my work is important, but usually we stay home. He'll make me cook with him, asking to taste this and test that. He's a genius chef, too, on top of being brilliant at painting. Then we'll do something like watch t.v. together. He watches those guilty pleasure soap operas a lot, but - get this - makes use criticism the entire time. He won't shut up about everything that they're doing wrong with those shows, and yet he still watches them religiously!"

"Even Italy can be cynical," Austria said, setting his mug down again. It sounded hollow; he must have polished it all off during the spiel. "I do admit, I like to think he gets it from me. Hungary isn't that brand of snarky, only bluntly sarcastic, and Spain is gently critical and straightforward."

"I could see why you'd think that. But besides the t.v. programs, he may pull me outside to play with the dogs, which, I confess, I love more than I let on. He'll throw them frisbees and tennis balls, and let them climb all over him with their dirty paws. He doesn't mind getting dirty too much, but when we go back inside he'll just boldly strip down to his underwear like he has no sense of decency and ask me to wash his clothes for him."

Germany closed his eyes and blushed as the image of nearly naked Italy wearing one of his own shirts popped into his head. He was always surprised with how much he liked that picture, and only narrowly managed to avoid choking on his coffee with a painful gulp.

"I'd imagine that you don't mind that nearly as much as you should." Austria sounded smug about that, and Germany shot him a glare, embarrassed.

"He says he likes the smell of the detergent I use."

"Well, it DOES smell very fresh, after all. Can't blame him for that."

"Mm. He's… I-I don't think he knows how he makes me feel." Germany looked up at the ceiling again, but soon closed his eyes, the energy he felt while talking about Italy draining from him. "He acts so innocent, and calls us 'best, best friends.' FRIENDS."

"You are, though, are you not?" the other nation asked, volume subdued. Austria too was leaning back, eyes closed and posture relaxed.

"We are. But you know that that clearly isn't all I want to be…"

"Hmm."

"He… h-he just acts so stupid sometimes!" Suddenly, the energy returned; a warm anger pumped through his veins, and Germany clenched a fist. "He does all these weird things, like touch my butt or sleep in the same bed with me or tells me he loves me, and it… makes me hope a little! But then he ruins it all by calling us 'best friends!' I KNOW we are that, and I'm happier than anything else in this world that we are, but it that ALL? Does he KNOW how mad he makes me by teasing me like this?!"

"Hmm…"

Germany sighed and leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees and rubbing his face. "I know I don't even have the right to be angry at him for this," he muttered, pressing the heels of his hands into his eye sockets and watching colors pulse behind his eyelids. "But I can't help it. I… I'm hopelessly in love with him and he doesn't even have a clue…"

Austria didn't respond, and Germany looked up, the fireworks fading as he blinked. His confidant was nodding off, head lolling to the side, pressing his glasses uncomfortably against his face. One arm had slipped off of the armrest and was laying against his side.

Germany looked at the grandfather clock on the far wall. "I'm really sorry for keeping you up this late, Austria," he apologized, feeling a twinge of guilt as he stood. "If you're too tired, I could carry you to bed, as a small bit of repayment."

"Mmhmm…" Austria made a half-coherent noise, then suddenly jerked up, blinking rapidly. "Hm? Oh, no thank you, Germany. I can manage on my own. But I do recommend you take your departure now, I must confess I'm going to fall asleep soon, despite my best efforts to refrain. It's only a shame I couldn't offer any advice… um, 'do what you think is best' is the best I can say at this dreadful hour."

Germany scratched the back of his neck as Austria heaved himself out of the chair with a grunt of effort. "I'll let myself out. Um…" He pushed a hand through his hair again, several strands falling loose in his eyes again. "Thank you, Austria… for listening to me. You didn't have to, and I appreciate it."

"Don't worry about it." Austria slowly walked to the entranceway and leaned on the frame, stopping to yawn. He smirked up at Germany as the blond stopped beside him. "SOMEone had to let you vent. Can't have you popping like a shaken up soda from all the stress you take, can we?" He yawned again, covering his mouth with a hand. "Take a cup of coffee with you. You can return my mug at a later date. I wouldn't be able to live with myself if you fell asleep behind the wheel and wrecked that expensive car of yours."

Germany nodded, collecting their two coffee mugs. "Good night, Austria."

"Good morning, Germany."

As the other nation yawned for the fourth time and trudged down the hall to where his bedroom was, Germany took their cups to the sink. Refilling his with fresh coffee and gathering his damp slippers from the front, he locked the door and quietly left the house of Austria.

'Do what you think is best.' As he was driving back to his house, taking another sip of coffee every time his eyelids drooped, Germany pondered the tidbit of advice he was given. It was half-hearted in Austria's exhaustion, but it wasn't the first time he'd been told the same thing. Once, he'd sent an anonymous letter to France about it, and he'd received the exact same phrase at the end of it all.

'Do what you think is best.' Was confessing to Italy what was best? There was always that waning sliver of hope that his feelings could be mutual. But there was also an overwhelming chance Italy's love of pretty girls guaranteed that his feelings were painfully unrequited.

'Do what you think is best.

Do what you think is best.

Do what you think is best.'

His hands tightened on the steering wheel, gripping the leather wheel tightly enough to turn his knuckles pale. With one last echo of, 'do what you think is best', Germany slowed his car and changed lanes, looking for other vehicles as he rounded the concrete median and once again sped off into the night in the opposite direction of his home; toward what he thought was best:

Italy.


End file.
